


Fables

by aohatsu



Series: Fairy Tales, Fables and Faith [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't get why I'm always the one who gets kidnapped," Stiles whines, pulling on the rusty chain tied to his wrist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fables

"I don't get why I'm always the one who gets kidnapped," Stiles whines, pulling on the rusty chain tied to his wrist. There's another on his ankle, and one lying in the ground too, very obviously meant to go around his neck. He's glad they didn't put that one on, he's not a dog. He's not even a werewolf, why is he here, there's nothing for them to gain out of this, except, like, lessons in supreme sarcasm.

They're not even listening to him. Not that he's sure who 'they' are, because they jumped him, totally out of nowhere, and he woke up here, in a cellar of cellars, chained up to a wall. Seriously, chained to a wall. Who does that?

It's been a few hours, and all he's gotten is a water bottle thrown down the nearby stairwell, which didn't even make it close enough for him to grab.

Jerks.

At least, he thinks it's been a few hours. His cellphone is gone and any form of telling time has gone with it. It's definitely dark outside though, because there's a tiny rectangular window above a crowded set of shelves, and while there was light coming through it earlier, there's not anymore. He assumes he was unconscious for a while too.

There's also a disturbing amount of spiders down here. He's made conversation with a few, but he's pretty sure he's been bitten a few times, so maybe it's not the best kind of conversation. He's avoided squishing any, in case their families come seeking revenge. 

Yelling doesn't help, nobody comes down—not even to tell him to shut up. "They probably left," he says, out loud because he needs sound to survive. Nobody can ignore him for that long anyway. Except that they do, and his voice gets hoarse after a while: too much talking, admittedly a little bit of yelling, and no water. At least none he can reach, and he's done all the gymnastics he can, stretching out his toes until the sole of his sneaker managed to touch the water bottle... and send it another two inches in the wrong direction.

It's probably for the best, he thinks tiredly. It was probably poisoned, or filled with veritaserum, and they'd make him tell them all the secrets of the pack. Or, well, the ones he knew, since he wasn't really a member of the pack, so much as an... honorary partner-in-crime when it suits Derek's needs. 

Dude has a car, how Stiles gets stuck driving him places in at least every other episode, he'll never know. It's a sad state of affairs and if his dad ever decides to look at his car a bit too closely, he's in a shitload of trouble. Blood is hard to wash out, is the thing. His poor upholstery.

There's a noise from above him, the creaking of floorboards, and dust floats down from the rafters, making him cough dryly. The wall to his left is set with bookshelves and crates, old junk covered in dust and some questionable green stuff that must be moss. One of the crates teeters dangerously on the edge when there's a loud bump from over Stiles' head. He can hear someone yelling, maybe a woman, but he can't make out the words. 

At first he thinks it's because it's muffled, and as unsound as this basement looks and feels, it's still a whole floor apart, and the door is shut at the top of those stairs. But his vision is blurring in front of him, everything dark and hazy, and he can't even concentrate on how bored he is, which is the one thing he usually can concentrate on, because it's something that never goes away. He hasn't taken anything today, except chloroform, maybe, but he's starting to think that maybe... maybe it's been longer than he thought. 

The brick of the wall behind him is cold and uncomfortable, but he leans against it anyway, and shivers, trying to wrap himself in his arms, except the manacle on his wrist is making it a bit difficult. Even that blurs after a minute, and he starts to breathe. It's just like a panic attack, maybe, because—because he'd thought, a couple hours, no big deal, Scott would find him, easy. That's what the idiot's nose is for, and if he was too distraught by whatever Allison-related drama was happening this week, then fine, Derek would find Stiles.

He might be a bit meaner about it, but Stiles is ninety-nine percent sure Derek wouldn't leave Stiles' to rot in some fucker's basement, if just because Stiles knew way too much about Derek. He was a flight risk, seriously. Or, no, that was the wrong analogy. Whatever, the point is, even if the werewolves didn't pull through, because they're dumbasses, seriously, Stiles' father is the sheriff, okay, the sheriff, you can't kidnap the sheriff's son outside his high school and not expect cops to be on your doorstep in like, two or three hours, tops. 

But it's dark, and cold, and Stiles knows it's been way longer than a couple hours. 

He's not panicking, there's no point. Whatever is happening out there, he can't do anything about it. He's chained to a goddamn wall, making sarcastic comments at bugs and old boxes filled with musty winter coats and old toys and dusty bottles of wine.

When he finally falls asleep, probably due to a mixture of exhaustion, boredom, and nothing-else-to-do, despite his decision to not fall asleep amongst the enemy (not that they're visiting him), he has a weird dream about his mom. Dreaming about his mom isn't so unusual, he does that all the time. She used to climb under the covers with him and read him stories, until he fell asleep to the sound of her voice talking softly about princes and space pirates and wizards. When he got too old for that, they'd drag the blankets to the couch in the living room and watch Star Trek episodes together until he fell asleep, head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat. Sometimes, if Dad wasn't working in the evening, he'd join them, and it'd be perfect.

He dreams about that, sometimes, about falling asleep next to his mom, being able to do that just because she was safe, and warm, and comfortable, and, and he could. 

This dream is different though, because she's in the kitchen, bleeding from a knife that a younger version of himself had stabbed her with, and she falls to her knees and tells him he needs to run, and he's crying, but he runs, and it's only when he runs into a giant, black wolf that he realizes he's holding the knife still, but that there's no blood on it, and he can see the reflection of a fire in the steel—

He wakes up groggy and shaking. It's dark, really dark, and he realizes it's because a towel has been pasted up over the little window he'd been able to see outside of, sort of. The water bottle is standing up next to his knee, and a paper plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is with it. 

He contemplates refusing to eat it, just for a second, but then his stomach decides for him and he tears off a small piece, trying to savor it. He hasn't eaten at least since before school on the day he was kidnapped, and who knows when they'll feed him again. "Oh, PB and J," he says, because it's maybe the best thing he's eaten in his entire life. He's horrifyingly hungry, he realizes, and before he can stop himself, he eats the whole sandwich. 

It doesn't last as long as he would have liked, and then he gulps down three swallows of the water bottle. Sanity wins out on that front; he does not want to run out of water down here. They either can't hear him or aren't listening, and he doubts that would change just because he yells that he's out of water. 

He may have also contorted his body really weirdly to pee on an ugly old coat a few feet away from him, but he refused to pee himself, okay, chained to a wall or not. It doesn't even smell that bad, probably because the entire basement already smells like mold and moss and old, gross things, like mouse droppings and questionable stains Stiles doesn't want to look too closely at. Not that he can, it's dark now. Too dark to see much of anything, despite his eyes getting used to it slowly.

It's times like these he wishes he'd gotten the bite, turned, became a super wolf. 

Times when his sarcasm runs out, and he's too exhausted to make a witty defense. Times when he just wants to be done with this, this stupid life where he's weak, gets kidnapped and chained to walls, because of stupid fucking werewolves who are supposed to be his friends, and it just... isn't fair. Where are they? 

They have to know by now, Stiles checks in with somebody at least once every two or three hours, it's just the way the world works. Derek is always needing something, and Scott really is his best friend, Allison being a thief or not, and Isaac tends to always just sort of be around, it's weird, and he's pretty sure Erica follows him on purpose to test her stalking abilities, and he runs into Jackson way too often for his personal liking, and they should have found him by now, if they were looking.

Unless they're not looking.

Why wouldn't they be looking? They'd better be dead, or fighting their way through the new monster of the week, because if they just haven't noticed, Stiles might honestly give up. He knows better to think that they don't care—if nothing else, Scott would care that Stiles got kidnapped. He's pretty sure they all would, really, even Derek. They're not like, best friends or whatever, but there is a connection, through mutual 'we are in so much shit' problems, and it's just a thing that they all do, saving each other when need be. 

But he thinks, maybe, he wouldn't be surprised if they just... hadn't noticed he'd disappeared. They'll have to notice when he doesn't show up at school though, right? Was yesterday Friday? He can't remember, his head is too all over the place, and he can't concentrate, can't think, or he's thinking too much, maybe, and no, no; his dad has to've noticed. It's the kind of thing a cop notices, right? When his kid doesn't come home from school?

Except... Stiles has done that a lot, lately, because of the pack, and werewolves, and solving murders, or burying bodies of monsters, or... Okay, so he can't really depend on anyone noticing, or at least worrying, that he's missing until at least school, presuming there is school today. He nods to himself, and then realizes that with the towel pasted on the window, he can't even make a good guesstimate about what time it is. Or if it's even still night-time. It could be the middle of the day for all he knows.

His head thunks against the brick, and because there is nothing better to do, he starts to sing old Christmas songs. 

He almost expects someone to yell at him to shut up the third time he shouts, "Like a light bulb!" after ' _had a very shiny nose_ '.

He pulls on the chains until his wrist is raw and throbbing, thinking every time that if he can just squeeze his thumb in a little closer to his palm, he might be able to pull his hand out of the metal. He's wrong, every time, but it's a way to spend the time anyway. It's like some fine form of torture, this. "Torture through boredom," he says, because he can't even be scared. He's too bored to be scared. "I can't decide if this is the smartest torture tactic ever, or the worst."

Nobody answers him.

What do they even want?

He thinks the towel gets brighter—it goes from a black-red color to a red-pink color—and decides it's safe to declare the sun as being up. It only helps his mood a little. Sunrise is at five thirty. At least four more hours before Scott realizes Stiles isn't picking him up for school. If it's a school day. 

He falls asleep again, but thankfully there's no stabbing of his mother, and no giant wolves, and definitely no fires, which is all way too much symbolism for his head to deal with right now, okay, thank you. He wakes up to the feel of a hand pressed up against his forehead.

"He has a fever." 

The voice is deep, rough, like the sound of his jeep's tires over gravel. 

Stiles blinks his eyes open, muggy. He fights it for a minute, before realizing it's not him, that there's actually a blindfold tied around his eyes. Maybe these guys are smart, even if they're stupid enough to kidnap the one kid in the entirety of Beacon Hills who isn't a werewolf. Or werelizard. Whatever, they're stupid by default.

He tells them so too. "You're all stupid," he says, "my dad is the sheriff, you realize that, don't you? He's literally on his way, right now, to bust your asses and haul you all to jail."

Silence, and the hand moves away after a minute. 

"Seriously, so stupid," Stiles adds, because there's no noise: nobody says anything to him, but there are no tell-tale signs of people leaving the room either. "Idiots, dumbasses, people who are not smart, I could go on but I haven't had any adderall today and I don't actually need to explain how dumb you are, because I'm pretty sure it's hit you. By now. That you are dumb."

Seriously, what is with the silent treatment?

"Go get the aspirin," someone finally says, and then he hears the sounds of quick footsteps up the nearby stairs, "and more water."

"And food!" Stiles calls after them, just because he can, but then he flinches at the feeling of a hand on his cheek. It stops at the movement, and it must be the guy who’s been talking, he's the only one who feels close enough. He backs away, and Stiles can almost feel him standing up. 

"What do you want?" Stiles finally asks, serious. "I don't—I don't know what you want, are you just, what are you even doing? Why me?"

After too much quiet, Stiles jerks and manages to dislodge the blindfold a little, if just to see impressions of colors. Someone must have turned on the lights in the basement. There's no noise, until the same quick footsteps hurtle back down the stairs and someone, sounding surprisingly young and feminine, says, "Here, Dad," and there's a rattle of pills in a bottle as it must be switching hands.

"I don't want—" Stiles starts, before the man grips his face and jaw and forces the pills—hopefully really aspirin, because of reasons—down his throat. 

"Drink," is the command that comes next, and Stiles does, the water bottle being held up to his mouth. 

He liked it better when they were ignoring him.

The small footsteps up the stairs are followed by larger, heavier ones this time, and Stiles is left alone again, now blindfolded and drugged just to add to his misery. Ignoring the part where apparently his depraved, crazy, psycho silent treatment initiator kidnapper is drawing his daughter into his evil schemes, his short brush with his kidnapper was less than enlightening. In fact, he basically knows less than before, because who gives someone they thought was a werewolf aspirin? 

He specifically avoided mentioning anything to do with lycanthropy, because he figures they don't know, or if they do, they'll be the ones to bring it up. Seriously though, why would they bother kidnapping Stiles, a clumsy nerd with like three friends, total, who spends his Friday nights (when he's not chasing or being chased by murdering psycho monsters) playing Call of Duty or re-watching Star Wars, because how pathetic can you get, really, all he needs is to add sobbing into his mint tub of ice cream and have orange covered cheeto fingers, and wow, getting off topic. The point is, why would they kidnap _him_ , if not because of Scott, and Derek, and the whole turning-into-slightly-murderous-wolf-creatures once or twice or thirteen times a month?

They can mostly control it now; it's not that big of a deal.

The big deal is getting kidnapped and your friends not coming to the rescue, actually.

There is one point, in the next however many hours, and he's honestly lost track, isn't even really trying anymore, it feels like he's been down here for days but it's probably been like twelve hours, tops, when he hears the creak of the door open, and someone takes careful, deliberate steps down the stairs. They don't make it all the way, and as soon as Stiles calls out, to make sure he isn't being visited by a ghost or some shit, this is his life, they leave and shut the door behind them.

He's really getting tired of this.

Really.

The sound of gunfire is not what he wanted to hear though. Yells, furniture breaking, the sound claws make as they whip through the air... whatever, he was expecting werewolves to come to his rescue, not what sounds like _cops_. Like _his dad_. And then, because he's yelling, "I'm down here! Hey, guys, Dad, Rodriguez, Haner!" the sound of the door at the top of the stairs splinters open and there's a hand grabbing at the cloth of his blindfold, ripping it off. 

Derek.

Derek, with eyes blazing red and claws out, and holy fuck, "Please tell me my dad did not notice those," is the only thing he can think to say, high-pitched and alarmed and maybe a little depraved sounding. Derek, admittedly appropriately, maybe, just growls at him and rips the chains that have been giving Stiles so much trouble _right out of the wall _. Stiles would cry, except Derek is picking him up, and how is he just now noticing that he's shaking, and that he can't really breathe, and it's stupid, so stupid, but he clings at Derek until they're outside and the sun is glaring and his dad is there, and he feels like he's eleven again, and his mom is in the hospital because some stupid guy decided to shoot her for no reason, for no reason at all, and he's stupid because he's crying after he gets rescued, that's a thing, or something.__

He's pretty sure his dad is crying too though, so he doesn't even care, seriously, he can be seventeen and mature and whatever else later.


End file.
